Velvet Gowns (It all ends in golden light)
by Hellsig Otoupeim
Summary: It always gets worse before it gets better. You are Lothìriel of Dol Amroth; born to reign and rule and - be. (But no one told you playing at Queen was so lonely.)


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings, nor anything you might recognise in this text. I am merely trying not to ruin cannon too much as I explore what exactly it entails for Eomer ( _nephew_ to the King) to ascend the throne and marry a girl (couldn't have been older than sixteen, really) whose Father's kingdom was vassal to Gondor.

* * *

Velvet Gowns. (It all ends in Golden Light)

.

You can hear them, when they believe you are out of ear-shot and gone. They whisper in your shadows, speak of your pale skin and dark hair that does not belong to the fair halls of Meduseld. You can hear, and although you silently agree (your skin is pale as frost and your hair dark as the night but Rohirrims are golden fields and sun kissed; and you are a stranger in these lands, an exotic bird far from home and trapped in a gilded cage), although you think, in the privacy of your mind, that you would give anything to be somewhere else - the truth of the matter is that you are here. You will stay.

You can hear them, when they believe you are out of ear shot and gone; and you find that your people (your people in all but love), your people dislike you. It does pain you.

It shouldn't. It won't.

.

The sheets on your bed are still the same as yesterday's. You notice it as you slip in, the day after your wedding night. It makes you feel uneasy and dirty, and you scrounge your nose at the sight but a Lady does not show discomfort nor does she complain; so, you stay quiet. Eomer, however, makes a sound in the back of his throat and strides out of the room. You think he has gone to get a cleaning maiden and give an earful to the matron. He comes back with bedsheets in his arms. Your eyes go wide.

Eomer changes his bed himself. You sit at the vanity, legs cut from underneath you as the reality of your life evades your mind times and times again. (You were brought up in many pillared halls of stone, running across marble steps and feet away from the sea. Servants milling about quietly and never the need to do menial work because you are a Lady and a Lady does not stoop so low as to make her bed or empty her bath.)

There is a shiver running down your spine as you watch your husband stride over to the door with the dirty laundry and disappear into the darkened halls of Meduseld.

You do not know how to make a bed. (You are a child yet.)

You bury your hand in your face and cry.

.

Your husband thinks you cold. (He does not love you.) Yours is a marriage of convenience, an alliance between two countries in order to counterbalance the force of Gondor and you hold no illusion as to your future. (A gilded cage of marble stones, winters ebbing by to the sound of hooves on stone. Far away are the springs of Dol Amroth, the sea - ever wide and calling, rolling blues and foaming greens laughing just outside your window. Gone. Gone the sea, gone the seagulls with their forlorn cry. Only horses whine here.)

You feel yourself grow cold.

Rohan holds nothing for you. The fields are flat and you long for the soft hills you ran through as a girl. The grass is tall and golden, but sometimes you think it sand and a painful beat skips in your chest. There is no sand in Rohan, nothing but the cruel Northern Wind that bites and takes and steals all your warmth away. Yes, you are cold. (You weren't before you came to the Horsemasters.)

You have _grown_ cold.

.

Ice-queen, they call you. Snotty, stuck up – Southerner. The velvet fabric of your gown – far too warm for a winter in Dol Amroth; but already you shiver in the summer evenings of Rohan – the velvet is foreign to you and weighs down on your mind. You long for the silken dresses of lazy days, for the soft, fresh cotton sheets you slipped into when the weather became stuffy and thick. You long for home.

The velvet is thick and scratchy, a little lace trim decorating the cuffs – but they remind you of shackles far too much.

You long for the silken dresses hung in your wardrobe. You will never wear them again.

.

The night is old when you step into your rooms. They aren't your rooms, more Eomer's, and it feels like he's just lending them to you. It feels like you are a temporary stranger, amongst the battle armour and horse care instruments. You eye a brush with disdain; think that if this is what Eomer brushes his hair with, no wonder it looks such a mess – but you know better. You are simply being petty over a horse brush on the vanity. (Your gold-chiselled brush, made of Mumakil Ivory, looks out of place here. You are used to a long marble vanity but here, in the most private chambers of the King, there is no such thing. Only a sturdy wooden dresser that has seen better days.)

You want to cry.

The night is old when you step into your rooms. Eomer sleeps already, tired that he is from officing all day, and you wonder when was the last time you spoke. (On your wedding day, you think.) You dine in your rooms, because you have been taught that a Lady does not attend a dinner without her Lord, but Eomer scarcely has time for these things. He takes his meals in the privacy of office; squeezes sustenance between important paperwork and angry civilians, and there is little time left for a wife. Be it a Queen.

You wonder if things are done differently in Rohan. You wonder if, perhaps, they wait for you in the banquet halls every night and sigh when you do not come. You wonder if they think you are snubbing them.

You don't know. No one has ever bothered to tell you, and you have been taught that a Lady should never let her ignorance show.

You are cold.

The bed is wide. The sheets are cool when you slip between them, and you shiver. The rooms in Meduseld are small and of low ceiling to avoid losing heat, but even now you are cold. You wish you could press closer to the man sharing your bed, wish you could share his warmth if not his heart, but there is no such thing for a Queen of Convenience. You know your place.

The hearth is cold and there are no extra blankets on the bed. No one has offered them to you and a Lady should never let her discomfort show – and you want to cry and cry and cry. It is dark. You pretend the few tears that slide against your cheeks don't exist. You want to cry and cry and cry, and you do so in silence.

A Lady should never show her tears.

.

You wake before your husband. It's something that has been engrained into your being since you were a very small child. (Wake before your husband and make sure his breakfast is ready. Have the bath be prepared for him and keep his pageboy on hand so that he can be swiftly dressed. Check his calendar and remind him of his schedule for the day as you bring him fresh towels.) There is nothing for you to do in Meduseld. There are no baths in the King's chambers; breakfast is manned by cooks who work on rotation so there is always someone in the kitchen; and Eomer dresses himself. The first time you tried to look at his calendar, you were promptly made to understand that you had no business there.

You wake up early because it has been engrained into you. The sky is still pale pink and soft golds. You slide to the window and watch the sun rise.

Eomer wakes up when the sun peeks through the window. He rises in silence, ties his morning robe about himself and gathers his clothes before heading to the bathhouse.

You wonder how it all went so wrong.

.

You write home daily.

You are lonely here. There are no Ladies to entertain, no social outings to partake in. There is no one to be your companion, and you find yourself lonelier and lonelier as the days pass. You write home daily. You describe the heaviness in your soul in tear-stained letters to your father. You beg of them to visit, bite down sharply on your white knuckles as your vision blurs and your hand trembles. You miss the sea, you miss the hills, you miss the warmth of the Southern Sun. You want to go home. Rohan has made you grow cold and you feel sick, alone here, as if there was a darkness growing in your chest and taking over your soul. (You recognise it all too well. High bred ladies are warned against the silent monster that it is, for they are often the first to fall prey to it. You had thought yourself far too happy to ever succumb.) And yet, succumb you have.

Getting up is hard in the mornings. Sometimes you lay in bed and stare at the dusty ceiling. You want to cry.

.

You never send those letters. They gather dust in a little drawer of the vanity, one you are careful to lock with an iron key you keep on yourself at all time. These letters contain no sensitive information, but a Lady does not show her despair and you know what a blunder it would be for anyone to come across the silent calls for help of the Queen of Rohan.

You never quite manage to burn them though.

.

It is your birthday. You are fifteen today.

Amrothos has promised, in an earlier letter, to send you presents. You know better than to expect them today - the roads in winter between Rohan and Dol Amroth are impracticable; but you had hope. You wake up with a heavy weight on your chest. (The elation of last year is so far from you. You wonder where your happiness has gone.)

You miss the honey cake the Matron would prepare for you. You miss the extra sweet the cook would slip you as your father turned his back. You miss running barefoot on the sand, dancing in the waves with your brothers as you kicked and tossed white foam into each other's eyes. You miss braiding flowers into your hair and putting the silken green gown on that goes so well with your eyes and waking up your father by jumping on his bed. You miss home.

Here, there is no one to remember that you were born today. There is no one to smile at you as you enter your sixteenth's year of existence, no one to welcome you into adulthood. Here you are Queen, and Queens don't have birthdays. They have duties no one has ever bothered to tell them about.

.

The letters pile quickly. You scrounge for more paper and ink, hating every second of it as you ask the matron from the very tip of your lips where you might obtain some. She huffs and bustles away and tells you to see the librarian. (You didn't know Meduseld had books - and here you are, being petty again. You hurt. You miss home.)

The librarian is an old woman who does not allow a single noise in the library, be it from the King of Rohan himself or a stable boy. She glares at you when you clear your throat to get her attention, but because you are a Lady of Dol Amroth and a woman of Court, you shake it off. (It doesn't slide off you as you would have hoped, because that look is becoming increasingly familiar and it hurts. It hurts and you want to go home. You want this to stop.)

You leave the library with the sense of being judged (but you are used to this, aren't you?), paper and ink carefully clutched in your hands. You are scared and alone in these strange halls.

You get lost and wander for hours before finally getting back to your room.

.

At home, your bed is wide enough for you to stretch and still have space. You have cotton sheets - or even silken, for when you want to feel very pretty. There is always a flurry of pillows on your bed, in soft blues and greens and purples. Your room is white marble and your bedsheets are a soft pastel colour that changes every day. Never pink and never red, because you don't like these colours; but always a different pastel shade. You have flowers on the window sill and it is wide enough for you to sit on it and enjoy the sunshine. From your bed, you can hear the waves clapping happily against each other.

In the Golden Hall, you share the bed with a man whom you do not know. The sheets are rough cotton that scratches against your bare skin and you get one pillow each. Your bed is dark red and rusty gold; the walls are cold grey stone and the floor dark wood. You have one tiny window. There are no flowers. All you can hear are horses.

You cannot sleep.

.

A Lady does not show anger. A Lady does not show happiness beyond an indulgent smile. A Lady does not pick up after herself. A Lady does not clean, does not change sheets, does not empty her own baths. A Lady does not brush her own hair. A Lady does not read her own books. A Lady does not write her own letters. A Lady does not dine without her husband in public. A Lady does not weed nor plant nor prune. She does not sweep nor wash nor iron. She does not cry, does not laugh, does not shout, does not speak out of turns and she is listened to by the Matron, obeyed by the staff, answered to by the cooks.

You stay cooped up in the palace, sharing your time between the quiet Library and Eomer's room. You are bored. There are no cooks to arrange and no dinners to plan and no party to throw. There are no Matron to command and no staff to order. There are no flowers to arrange and no useless sigil to embroider and certainly no long strolls through well kempt gardens. The Matron scoffs at you and the staff talks behind your back and cooks chase you out of their kitchen. At least, in the Library, no one speaks to you.

.

Most books are written in Rohirrim. Some are in Westron, and you devour those as if they were ichor. Some are descriptions of places and travels - you even find one of Dol Amroth; and you carefully copy it out. It's long, and your hand aches by the end of it, but the Librarian has already told you no one could remove books from the Library and you cannot bear to part with this tiny piece of home. You carefully fold it and slip the rough parchment in the bosom of your dress. These words taste like brine and sound like the sea to you. When you read them, you can see the rolling green hills of your childhood and can hear the voice of your father, calling you home. You desperately wish you could go back.

There is nothing, you realise, here for you. A loveless marriage, an empty room - and the title of Regina. You almost wish you had accepted that Gondorian Suitor; never mind his lower status. You think he might have, at least, bothered to talk to you by now. You think his home wouldn't be dark and damp and cold.

The parchment chafes against your breast. You hurry to your room and take it out and slip it under your pillow.

You will fall asleep, that night, with a hand clenched around it.

.

They sneer as you walk. You are a postiche, an effigy, a shadow in the dark halls of Meduseld. You do not speak - not because you have nothing to say, but because you were taught not to speak. You do not look at them, not because you are better, but because if you look then their gaze will turn sharp and you will crumble.

You have been here a year. You still don't know your husband. You are just barely managing to find your way around Meduseld. You are still scared of horses. You still cannot speak Rohirrim. You still miss the sea.

You want to go home more than ever.

They say you have an ice-heart and do not care.

The truth is, the harsh winds have bitten at your flesh and frozen your blood. Rohan has made you cold.

.

You learn, with perhaps a little relief, that you are not expected to dine with the people of Meduseld. (You caved in and asked the Librarian, because she might be scary but she is here and all the time, here when you cry silently amidst the books and here when you stifle giggles and here when you just _stare_ into emptiness and you hope, gosh how you hope, that she will always be here.)

There is no love between the two of you, because you are a spoilt brat and she a stern matron, but you reach out to her; and whilst she does not reach out to you, she doesn't withdraw like most do here. You'll take what you can get.

.

Your father announces in a letter to you that he intends to visit. Your hands shake as you show Eomer the letter, so impatient to see them again. (You hope their presence will abate the darkness in your soul. You hope they will warm you up with hugs and laughter and happiness.) Eomer nods, says the three suites must be prepared and you understand the underlying meaning. You will have to prepare the three suites yourself. (You are getting better at these things. It's fully thanks to the book you found on your desk in the library, written in Westron by one of the earlier wives of a King of the Riddermark. You found your own dread echoed in her words, your own loneliness and whilst it does not make the burden lighter to bear, at least you now know what the duty of a Queen are.)

That night, when Eomer has gone to sleep on the other side of the too big bed, you curl up on yourself and cry. It's not a new thing, but that time you cannot keep it quiet and you hope madly that Eomer cannot hear you. (You cry, because the girl that you are now is a pale shadow of the one that left and you fear the disgust on their face. You fear your father will turn you away and say you fell short of your duties. You fear your brothers will not recognise you. You fear the person you have come will not get better in their presence.)

The sheets chafe against your cheeks as you use them to rub your eyes dry. You know they'll look puffy tomorrow if you don't drink and splash water on your face now, so you go to the pitcher you always put on the vanity and pour some water into the washbowl. After a year, drinking from it does not repulse you as it once did. (You are learning and changing and adapting, and you will take every small triumph along the way.) You cup your hands and pretend the water you drink isn't salty from your tears. You cry until you cannot keep your eyes open and the empty washbasin is once again filled. You try not to look at your reflection as you pour the snot and tears out.

The bed is cold when you slip back in. You curl in on your side, facing away from a sleeping Eomer, all of your fifteen years making you so small under the heavy covers that don't ward off the chill; and you didn't think you could cry again - but you do. You will wake up with a terrible headache tomorrow. Your pillow is wet and your nose feels blocked on one side only, so you turn around and curl up on your left instead of the right and try to stifle the quite whimpers. Eomer's eyes, black in the darkness of the room, stare at you intently. You freeze, a half sob caught in your throat and tears running silver in the moonlight. You know you look ugly like that, so you turn back around and desperately try to muffle your sobs.

You are ashamed and lonely and you really, really wish you could go home. (You are at the point where, going to sleep each night, you pray you won't wake up.)

.

Your father and two of your brothers come. You pretend like their gaze doesn't darken when they see you, because you know your cheeks are gaunt and your lips bloodless and your eyes red, but you are so happy to see them again. Their presence makes it easier to sleep at night, as you fill the silences with the soft lilts of the singing Westron spoken in Dol Amroth. It's far from the guttural Rohirric, far from the harsh sounds you are just beginning to learn and something within you blooms as you find your childhood again. You eat more food, smile more often and some of the happiness comes back. Your father dotes upon you, brings you your favourite stuffed toy from home and those flowers you love so much. Elphir pulls out Honey Cakes the Matron has made just for you and Amrothos brings a seashell.

At night, when your family has gone to their chambers and you sit alone in the dark of Eomer's room, you grab the shell and press it against your ear. You can make out the soft murmur of the sea and the crying of seagulls.

You plant the seeds on the Spring Equinox and store them in an earthen pot, inside Eomer's room. It's not much warmer than outside, but you hope to see those delicate flowers bloom. (It shouldn't mean so much, except that you know, within yourself, that were your flowers not to thrive and bloom, you would give up all hope on Rohan. It's got nothing to do with gardening and everything with the darkness your family is momentarily keeping at bay.)

.

Your brothers and you go for runs through the planes of Edoras. It's hardly the behaviour that befits a Queen (dixit the book you have read so often, front to back and back to front) but with your family acting as buffers and your brothers so willing to indulge your every whim - you run. You run, past the wooden walls that ward off weary travellers. You run, through the symbeline and over the tombs of Kings. You run, run across to the horizon and you chase it, chase that endless limit and refuse to stop until your lungs are gasping for breath. The fields of Rohan stretch for miles in every direction and despair overtakes you. You will never escape from here.

Your brothers catch up and you force those thoughts away. You have always been the fastest of the four, always running ahead and chasing whispers your brothers couldn't see. They were too busy, before you left, to run with you. It alarms you, in a way, that they have made time in their chaotic lives to come and see you; it makes you worried. You think they might be the heralds of bad news, but the fear is easy to push away when your brothers' smiles make the darkness recede. You run and run and run, the velvet gowns weighing you down but you are still faster – always have been, always will be – and you feel like you might sprout wings as you pick a random direction and take off.

Then the heavy shape of Edoras appears again – and all thoughts of freedom are gone. Your brothers catch up to you, you and your ruffled skirts bunched high above your knees, you and your hair tangled in a mess of a braid – you and all the childhood that you never quite grew out of. Fifteen, they think, is still so young.

.

Eomer is thirty. Intellectually, you know that you are lucky. He could be forty. Some of your suitors were. He's barely twice your age, and many young girls cannot claim to have this chance. (You are still very, very unhappy.) Eomer is thirty and a man, not a boy. He does not care for a girl learning to be a woman. He understands, of course he does, the need for you to be here. He understands what he gains by having you wedded to him and he would be a poor leader indeed if he hadn't sacrificed his marriage for his people - but neither of you are happy and you know it. You are fifteen, a child really to the man who has lived and fought through a War whilst you cowered in Dol Amroth. You were not clear of the Shadow of Mordor; no one ever was, but for all the Corsairs of Umbar were truants they were men – and that's a lot more than what can be claimed of the Orcs (or heaven forbid the Uruk-Hai). He is a man and you are a child, and something in you grows and grows and grows until you don't just feel out of place; you feel inadequate and offset and useless, and you really wish you could go to sleep and never wake up.

You are a coward though. (Another thing setting you apart from Eomer.) You cannot bring yourself to face death.

.

Of course, your Father and Brothers have to go back.

You had carefully avoided thinking about it, but you can no longer. As you stand on the steps of Meduseld, watching them ride through the gates of Edoras, your chin is high and jaw set. You refuse to cry. (A Lady does not cry, a Queen even less.) Your fingers are white against the simple sea shell, clenched so tightly you fear to break it – but you couldn't let go even if you wanted to. Your father turns around, a hand rising in a last farewell, and all you can do from crumbling is to raise your own and wave back. Your family is going and you do not know when you will see them next.

You set your chin and swallow your tears until the you can safely hide in the privacy of Eomer's room and cry.

.

You find, as you stare blankly at the wall – too numb to cry and too sad to move – that you can no longer weep. It is as if you held no more tears in your body. You sit there, on the edge of the bed, staring at the potted plant that is refusing to germinate, and there is a weight in your throat. You feel like you are about to cry but there are no tears. You are suffocating.

Breathing is hard, so you take deep breaths in and count to five before exhaling. You do it once, twice – and then it's too tiring to carry on so you would rather just breathe around the ball of painful thoughts lodged in your lungs. You feel like you are drowning. Breathe in and out, as best as you can. You don't have the strength to get up. (You know you should go and strip your family's beds. You know you should tidy Eomer's room and change the sheets, but all you can do is try to remember to breathe. You fear that moving might stop air from coming into your lungs. You feel like moving would send you plummeting down into the Abyss.)

You sit on the edge of the bed until Eomer comes back. He stops when he sees you there, because you aren't normally in the room when he finishes after a long day of work, but you barely notice him; so focused that you are on trying not to topple down into the darkness. Eomer walks you by in silence and for a second you think that, perhaps, you have faded away. Perhaps he cannot see you because a breeze has blown you over and the pain in your chest is where your soul is missing. Perhaps he cannot see you because you are dead and just not there anymore.

You halt that train of thoughts, because you have stopped paying attention to getting air in your lungs and they have stopped working. You force them into action again.

In, and out. The knot tightens around your throat and you feel like, maybe, it would just be easier to lay down and go to sleep. In, and out. Something hitches in your breath and maybe it's a sob coming out; but you'll never know because you stifle it down, scared to make a noise. You fear the darkness lurking in wait.

Eomer sits next to you.

"_Lothìriel."

You turn your head towards him carefully. (Movement could send you down into the Abyss, but a Wife should always obey her Husband unless his orders will be detrimental to the House.)

He doesn't quite know what to say. The silence stretches, your eyes lose focus as you begin trying to remember to breathe again and, eventually, Eomer gives up and stands again. He disappears to the Bathhouse.

.

You are curled on the bed when he comes back. You still have your shoes on and did not bothered to move underneath the blanket, but at least you have moved and the Darkness hasn't jumped at you. Breathing comes a little bit more easily. Eomer tries not to look at you. (The Darkness isn't pretty, especially on a child.) He sits on the edge of the bed again.

"_Lothìriel; have you eaten today?"

You close your eyes and pretend you are sleeping.

Eomer gives up and goes to bed.

.

You are fifteen. Tomorrow is cold.

.

You look at the ring that adorns your hand. It's not ugly, just a simple golden band that encircles your finger. It's actually quite pretty. You like it.

You aren't used to wearing a ring on your fourth finger, so you twist and twist and twist it until it leaves angry red marks on your skin from where you've twisted so much.

You like the ring. (It's a shame you didn't get a chance to like your husband.)

.

"_do you want to go for a ride?"

It is one of the milder days in Edoras, one of the days when Eomer doesn't have quite as much work. You know he has been trying to spend time with you, so you aren't quite as surprised when he comes into the library and heads your way. You slide what you are reading under a pile of Gondorian tales, open them to some page you cannot quite care for and frown at the story of Hùrin. You don't like that story.

"_Lothìriel?"

"_milord." You accompany this with a smile, because you have been brought up in the House of Dol Amroth and you will not bring shame to their name.

"_would you do me the honours of your presence on a ride?"

Your smile stiffens and your back turns rigid. You do not know how to refuse, and yet the fear grips at your heart. (You are scared of horses. Equinophobia, your father once told you with a kind smile. You are scared of Horses and married to the King of Rohan and the irony did not – how could it? – escape you.

Eomer's face falls slowly into a frown when your silence prolongs. Something snaps in your chest, like a sudden flood of panic that overtakes your senses and you wonder if Eomer will give up on you now.

"_it would be my honour." You murmur from the tip of your lips; because you are scared but a Queen does not show fear and you are terrified he will give up on you when Eomer realises that you are gone, gone - gone and gosh don't you fear to be alone?

His smile isn't forced. You wonder if he'll laugh at you from atop his horse.

.

You aren't exceptionally pretty. It's a cold truth for most of the Ladies that you know. None of you are particularly pretty, not like some of the common girls might be; with sun in their hair and laughter upon their brow. You are a creature of pale skin and dark hair, soft skin and even softer voice. You aren't pretty like some might be; but you aren't ugly and that, in itself, means a lot. You are skinny enough that dresses can dare a little lower cut, have a sufficient bosom (even at fifteen) for men to look at it - but you aren't pretty. Not in the way of Rohan's sun-kissed skin and golden hair. You wonder if Eomer finds you ugly.

For all you are a child and lonely, here in Edoras, you are not blind. Your husband (husband; but that word has lost all its meaning. Your husband.) Your husband is handsome. He has rich hair and a nice (ish) face, with broad shoulders and firm muscles. You wonder if he will ever see you as a wife, child that you are, and hope that he doesn't quite forget the world you come from. (Your name is Lothìriel of Dol Amroth, and you have been bred to bear children and lead a household. You don't quite understand how you came to be in this position; leading a kingdom and colder than stone, but you do your best – even if it does not amount to much – and try to be the woman you aren't quite yet. If only he could pretend too.)

You are, with all the strength of a fifteen years old (with all the dreams of a fifteen years old girl who hasn't quite understood love), you are aware of how handsome your husband is. Your hand trembles when you speak to him and you ache, ache because you are a child and Eomer is thirty. For all you are his Wife, he would never touch you. (Your bed is cold and your womb colder. You, who were made to bear children, find yourself devoid of a dream that wasn't yours.)

.

Eomer does not laugh from atop his horse. The beast is tall and proud, nervous and alert; a machine of war. You fear horses. Their hooves are sharp and their cries loud; and you remember the thunder of cavalries on the white stones of Dol Amroth. For all you were off the path of war, war still found its way to you. You fear horses. (You fear the humans atop the horses too, because they killed and killed and killed and you cannot unsee the blood on your white _white_ white stones, but things are as they will be and you fear horses because fearing horses is a lot easier to explain than fearing monsters atop them. It hurts a lot less to fear horses.)

Eomer does not laugh at you, as you step in the stables and your skin turns a shade paler than white. You don't feel too well and think you might throw up, but you are a Lady and a Queen; and really you should know better than that. You take a step forward. (For all you cry and cry and cry, you get up in the mornings. If your brothers are to be believed; it makes you brave.) You take a step forward, but find yourself immobile. If you move, you will step back and you are a Daughter of Dol Amroth. You do not step back because you are a Lady and a Lady does not show fear, even less a Queen.

Eomer is already in the stable beside the horse, talking in soft lilting tones and gently brushing his mane. You recognise the kindness in his hands as the one your brothers have when near you, but instead of warming you it just turns your insides to stone. You are scared.

Eomer smiles at his horse and throws the saddle mat across his back. (You wonder if it is too late to turn tail and run.)

"_Lothìriel?"

The hand he extends is warm. He pulls you closer a little impatiently, grabs your waist and lifts you on the saddle so swiftly you have barely noticed you came close to the horse. The beast beneath you whines and chortles, but you lock your jaw and set your chin and try desperately not to grip too firmly on the leather saddle. (Your hands shake. Gosh, you are terrified already, so scared barely a word can escape your lips. You are terrified.) Eomer mounts in front and leads the killing machine out of the stables. (Gosh you are terrified. You command your soul to Mandos and hope against hope that someone will take pity upon you and stop your husband before he kills you.)

"_wrap your hands around my waist," Eomer says quietly. "It'll allow you to hold on better."

You hesitate a second, not because you don't want to touch Eomer but because holding onto him means letting go first, and you aren't sure you can do that. He misinterprets your silence, because his (big, rough, sun kissed) hands grab your tiny wrists and wrap your arms securely around his waist. (You are so tiny you cannot even quite encircle his waist atop the leather armour he wears.) Your grip is tight on the leather, tight enough your knuckles go white, but he does not notice (or does not care.) The streets of Edoras are empty and both of you make quick way to the golden planes of Rohan. Once clear of the doors, your husband shapes his mouth, makes a sound (Rohirric, and you are learning; but that was too fast for you to make anything out), and then the beast runs and it feels like you are flying, except the only thing between you and sudden death is a man who does not consider you adult and your grip tightens. You squeeze so hard you manage to link your fingers and perhaps, then, Eomer realises how utterly terrified you are. The horse whinnies when forced to trot so soon after it began galloping, but your husband distractedly pats his neck and looks over his shoulder.

You must be quite a sight, face firmly pressed in his leather armour as you hide from the world. You suppose he can see nothing but the crown of black hair, tangled in the wind. (This is you, Lothìriel of Dol Amroth; a Queen so scared of horses she cannot even tell her husband to bring the beast to a walk.)

"_Lothìriel?"

Very slowly, you allow your fingers to unwind. They are cold from where the blood no longer flowed, and the leather armour whines a sigh of relief at the pressure easing, but Eomer pays it all little mind. You try to curl in on yourself; because – what kind of person is scared of horses? – but there is a lurch in the pace and your eyes widen with fear and your hands fly to grip the closest thing to you; which just happens to be Eomer's arm.

"_are you scared of horses?"

You blink, once, trying to compute this all past the adrenaline in your brain and the madness in your blood, and then nod sharply. Another lurch, you flinch, close your eyes and await the laughter. (For all you are a Lady and a Queen and a Princess, you are above and foremost and child-woman. You wish you could just be a woman already, with all the poise and the assurance and the abilities it implies.)

Your husband turns back to his horse and the silence that falls upon you is heavy. The beast whinnies as he is turned towards the city again, and you shut your eyes further to bite back the bitter tears. Your name is Lothìriel of Dol Amroth; and you are incredibly lonely.

.

"_I am sorry." You murmur as Eomer leads the monster back into the stables. He does not reply.

(You keep your eyes shut and bow your head. You have gone and wrecked whatever was trying to blossom between the two of you, and gosh you hate yourself for it. "I am sorry", you say – but sorry cannot fix it. You want to cry and feel numb.)

You aren't quite numb enough for the fear to leave. Eomer dismounts first; leaving you alone atop the broad horse and immediately you try to reach for him. You are clumsy, your hand grasping air and unsettling you enough that, had Eomer not foreseen your panic, you would have fallen onto the floor from the great height of the monster. His hands are not as warm as when he set you into the saddle, but they are still as big and still as calloused; so you draw comfort from that. He catches you and lifts you off, but doesn't quite settle you onto the floor until he has taken a few steps back. (You are grateful for that; even more when he leaves his hands on your waist and steadies you until your legs can keep you up.)

"_thank you." you say once you think you can stand. Eomer doesn't remove his hands and you have to tear your eyes from the floor in order to see what the matter is. He is looking at you strangely.

"_I-" he begins, and you wonder why the king of Rohan looks so unsure of himself. "I am sorry."

(This is the moment when you should burst into tears, except that you have cried them all and your eyes are dry and dull and a little bit too dead for Eomer to be fully comfortable under their scrutiny when you look back at him and state, quite blandly for someone who could not think but a few moments ago.)

"_me too."

His eyes aren't golden. They are a dark honey colour, and you had never quite realised that your husband a few grey hairs in his beard.

.

Things don't immediately get better from here, but that's okay.

You have days when there is a lot of darkness and getting up is hard and you think that you are drowning. You have days when Eomer has no time for you, and the shoes of Queen are too big to fill, and you don't quite have a place here yet. You have days when the world is shifting too quickly and people pass you by and you cannot recognise their faces even when they greet you and you wonder if you are slowly going mad. You have days when you want to go to sleep and never wake up.

You also have days that are golden.

.

The library is by now an old favourite haunt of yours. You hide in there, away from the world and wrapped in the scent of old parchment and fading ink. Sometimes you miss lunch and dinner because you are buried in a good book, and Eomer has taken to coming to fetch you himself. You appreciate it. (Perhaps you even make sure to overrun with your reading time more often, because you like having Eomer come and fetch you. It makes you feel – wanted.)

You are hidden in the library, far enough away from the front desk that you can murmur to yourself words and no one will ever hear your dreadful accent. Your finger points to the picture of a horse as you trace the words before your eyes. You are struggling with the sound of this word, unable to shape your mouth quite right and you have been trying for days to make the sound just like the one you can hear Eomer utter sometimes. It starts in your throat and rolls atop your tongue, and you feel as if you are choking and coughing on air. You are, in fact, so focused on your work that you hardly notice the quiet footsteps of the King approaching your table.

"_Œwü-" you begin; but the sounds escape you again and you cough. Your tongue feels numb from shaping strange sounds. "Œwü-" you attempt once more; but your husbands voice startles you and you lose focus.

"_Œwüthrd."

You jump in your chair, clamping the book firmly shut and looking sheepishly over your shoulder. The children's book between your white hands winks at Eomer, who cannot help the smile on his face.

"_Œwüthrd." he repeats, and you can feel the crimson coming to your cheeks.

"_Œwüth-" You hide your face in your hands and try not to melt into the floor. Eomer laughs, warm and sunny and true, and your blush intensifies.

"_we'll try again later" he says quietly as he extends a hand. "For now, dinner."

You nod and obey, putting the book carefully back amongst the pile amassed on your work table (you'll be back tomorrow) and your hand is very tiny in his. It's his words you cling onto, though. (We, he said. We. It makes your insides flutter and your cheeks redden and your head feel light.)

You hum lowly all your way to dinner.

.

You still miss home. There are days when you stare blankly at the wall, winter nights when you first see snow and summer evenings as you shiver in your velvet gowns. You miss home, and your brothers, and the sound of seagulls on the wind. You miss home and the waves and the calling of the sea, deep and restless inside your bones. You miss home like you have never missed anything before.

When you do, you stroke the fragile petals of blooming flowers. When you do, you stare at the wall and remember the brine upon your lips and the white marble floors, so cold against your sun kissed skin. You remember the world before it turned, and something in you blooms and shines and wilts.

You still miss home.

Sometimes, Eomer comes back to see you holding the shell close to your ear. He generally just sits on the bed with you then, waiting for you to speak about Dol Amroth and the white marble stones and the golden sands. You think that, in those moments, Eomer thinks not of you but of his sister, Princess of Ithilien. You wonder if he hopes that Faramir listens as he does, to the tales of golden homes and soft memories. You know, in those moments, that Eomer does not sit here for you.

You have, however, learnt to take whatever is given to you. You speak, not because he listens, but because you must. If you don't; you will burst and burn and fall apart.

.

You haven't written in quite a while, and that's why you don't immediately realise that the heavy iron key is gone from where you hid it, amongst the lose earth of the precious flowers your father gave you. You go looking for it, one day, when the sky is a little too close and you feel like you cannot breathe. The key isn't there. (The letter burns in your hand as you have a fleeting moment of panic. Where will you hide this? – and then; _fear_.)

Your rush over to the vanity, pulling on the handle of the little drawer and it refuses to open. You tug, once, twice; slide a pin from your simple hairdo (you are the younger sister to multiple brothers) and the lock yields easily. The draw slides open. (Empty.) Your heart rushes in your throat. (Your mind first turns to a maid, because you are still a Lady of Dol Amroth; but no maid enters the King's chambers. The only person who spends any time here is your husband, your husband who might have noticed the locked draw and been curious. Your husband who has been kinder lately, more generous. Your husband whose hands have often held you this past week.)

Your throat closes. (So – this is why?)

Quietly, you slide the envelope into the draw and shut it. (You are a Queen. Such things, you tell yourself, are not to your embarrassment.)

You check daily, and eventually the iron key comes back into the pot. You remove the letters from the draw and hide them in the pocket of an old silken gown. You lock the draw back up and leave the cast iron key into the pot.

Eomer is kinder with you after this.

.

"_you don't have to do this."

You both know it's a lie.

Eomer is thirty-three, with gentle lines appearing around his eyes. (You are barely eighteen.) His council is pushing for him to have an heir, and you know your role in this place. Still, you lie.

"_I know."

He smiles, and the beard tickles the palm of your hand. (Your pale fingers look so small against the golden hue of his skin, and for a second you feel doubt curl inside of you. This is not what you dreamt of; but you have learnt to take what you are given and Eomer has always been good to you.)

Gently, you smooth away the few creases forming onto his skin. You are tiny, even now, standing before him in a too heavy velvet gown. His skin is rough against your hands, despite the few callouses that you have acquired from the Rohirrim lifestyle. This is you.

Eomer looks wearied, so you are careful in smiling as your thumb strokes the full flesh of his lips. You know he has been kind to you, respected and waited for you to grow; and now that you are older, wiser perhaps, you feel the weight of your debt on your shoulders.

Your husband is handsome, but this is not why, tonight, you will lie with him. (You think this might be love.) His eyes, dark honey and not golden, are fixed upon your face as you drink him in. You are no prettier than you were, but perhaps the years have given you a quiet assurance that you had been lacking. You aren't quite a woman, for all you are a decent Queen; but you are here and now Eomer is beginning to buckle under a burden he needs not wear. Tonight, you pray for an heir.

"_you are handsome." You whisper quietly into the silence. You do not miss the widening of his eyes, because he had not been expecting this, but you do not linger. (Your faces are so close together your breaths mingle, and he has overtaken your world. Everything else fades.) Your eyes are closed as you press your lips to his. (You have never done this before, so you aren't too sure what to do next, but thankfully Eomer seems to have a pretty good idea. You let him take over and become a quick study in these things.) He smells like hay and leather in the sun, a scent you have learnt to associate with home and safe and him. It's not a delicate scent, but the taste on your lips is full and round and it is him so fully that you cannot find anything wrong then. His hands, still as big, still as warm, still as strong, encircle your waist and you can feel their heat through the heavy velvet fabric of your gown. You smile against his kiss, flutter your eyelashes and he laughs.

He looks at you, once the laughter has subsided, and you feel small and regal and powerful underneath his gaze. He looks at you like the world spins in your eyes and you are its centre. He looks at you, looks through you and within you and you, for a moment, feel like the brightest of stars. (Supernova. You feel like you might be a supernova, eclipsing the sun.) You smile.

He is careful in setting you across his lap, velvet gown dragging across strong thighs. You know this position, naturally sink into his warmth and curl into the broad expenses of his chest, but his lips are quicker than your body and all rational thought leaves when he kisses you again. You gasp when his hand trails lower, to the gentle curves of your body, and think it is his tongue that comes to poke at your lips. You giggle as he runs it against yours, brushing the underside of the flesh.

"_tickles." you whisper. You open your eyes, looking at him with mirth, and then awe.

He is magnificent.

(Grey strands in his hair, but a soft light in his eyes and they are darkening to black, desire clouding them because you are his Wife and, somewhere along the way, something went horribly, horribly right.) You still fear and doubt, and you still need to remember to breathe; but there is a golden glow coming from the man before you, as if he were the centre of a galaxy and you a mere planet caught in its orbit. He is Eomer, King of Rohan. (He is your husband, and it isn't the King who tonight unbinds your hair and runs a golden hand through cascading raven strands. It isn't the King nor the Husband; but the Man. It is Eomer, Eomer who loves and makes love and binds it down to you.) You try to stifle a giggle, because his beard is rubbing against the soft skin of your cheeks and that _tickles_ , but his fingers are removing the lacing of your dress and – this is you. This, is _you_. (You smile and smile and smile against his lips, smile as his fingers dig into your pale skin and smile as he bites at soft flesh. He is kind and gentle and here, here with him; you become something you have never been before. A dual-sun system, perhaps.)

His hands are warm upon your skin.


End file.
